by Anna Lord
“In that case, Fedir gives Moriarty an alibi.”
“Yes, yes he does.”
“That points to one of the servants as the killer,” he said, noting that she seemed relieved it could not have been Moriarty, “unless there really is a lunatic phantom on the loose.”
She dropped her gaze and spotted his pocket watch on the floor amongst his discarded clothes, and like her father she had no difficulty reading upside down. It was almost half past eleven. “I better get a move on. I’ve got a few things to take care of before lunch. Will you be joining us?”
The thought of rich food made him dry retch. “No, I want to nurse my head a bit longer, if you could send Xenia along in an hour or so with some plain bread and another cup of hot black coffee that will suffice. Oh, and take the sherry with you when you go.”
“Good decision,” she approved, scooping up the bottle and the glass. “There’s no need to follow in your brother’s footsteps just because things have been difficult of late.”
“Where did that thought spring from?”
“I understand from one of your chronicles that your brother had a fondness for liquor.”
“I am not my brother!”
He managed to dry himself without falling over and crawled back into bed until such time as someone ceased using his head as a war drum. She had been half right about his brother – it was not so much a fondness for liquor that his brother had. It was more like a violent love affair. He was like all alcoholics, totally obsessed with his next drink right up until the moment it killed him. The effect of his physical and moral dissipation had ruined his family and almost destroyed his long-suffering wife. As a consequence the doctor harboured no fear he would ever follow in his brother’s footsteps. Last night was a rare moment of personal weakness where he was unable to put into words what he felt and had thus turned his silent disgust back on himself.
But the morning after, as every alcoholic knows, there is always remorse and the promise to oneself that things will be different from now on. While he lay in bed he told himself that her moral choices had nothing to do with him. She was free to live her own life according to her own moral dictates. He had no right to tell her who she could befriend or who she could love. Even if she chose to marry Moriarty, so be it.
Lunch was being served early because breakfast had been interrupted and morning tea had been by-passed. It consisted of French onion soup, crusty bread and an assortment of cheeses. The tureen and platters were standing ready on the table and they would serve themselves. Inez and Desi were inconsolable. They had spent most of the morning sobbing into their aprons. The old couple had turned even more taciturn than usual. The four men were milling around the great hall, agitated by the death of the boy, anxious to find the killer, annoyed at not knowing what had happened to their hostess. They were even starting to suspect each other.
“I’ve got a cast iron alibi,” growled Moriarty when the other three ganged-up. “I was in here with Fedir all night until we heard a noise at first light and raced up the stairs to the south tower. Fedir ran to wake the Countess, as instructed earlier, and I stayed in the south tower to make sure whoever it was didn’t escape.”
“Except there was no one there,” reminded von Gunn.
“Very convenient for you,” noted the Prince flippantly.
“What are you implying?” barked Moriarty.
“He is intimating you could have raced downstairs and killed the boy while Fedir was fetching his mistress,” pointed out Reichenbach bluntly.
“Except I had no reason to kill him,” argued the Irishman.
“Like you said,” returned von Gunn, “the boy might have seen something he wasn’t meant to see the night the Singing Wolf disappeared.”
“I had no reason to kill her either!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, let us desist, there is a lady present.” Prince Orczy turned to the Countess, who had just entered, noting the half-empty sherry bottle in her hands. “Will Dr Watson be joining us for lunch?”
“No, he is still nursing a sore head, but there is someone else who will be joining us,” she said mysteriously. “Let me introduce our elusive phantom.”
20
Lalique
“Enchante, messieurs.” The girl employing impeccable French looked like an animated golden-haired doll with bouncy ringlets as she made a charming curtsey.
To describe the four men as stunned would be an understatement. The ash from Reichenbach’s cigarette dropped on the Turkey rug. Von Gunn missed his mouth and dribbled cognac down his chin. Prince Orczy, who was in the process of stubbing his cigarette in an ashtray, mis-judged and ground the butt into the walnut sideboard. Moriarty, who was still inwardly seething from the verbal attack, looked gobsmacked. Snake-haired Medusa could not have had a more stupefying effect.
Lalique waited courteously for someone to say something, smiling prettily at the four stupid men who were trying desperately to apply reason to this new and bizarre state of affairs. The Countess conducted introductions and the girl curtsied afresh at each man in turn.
“Baron Reichenbach, I would like to present to you Lalique, the daughter of the Singing Wolf.”
And so it went three more times with Herr von Gunn, Prince Orczy and Colonel Moriarty, which was just as well for it took some time to sink in.
“Let us sit down to lunch before the soup turns cold,” suggested the Countess. “Colonel Moriarty, would you be so kind as to bring some cushions for our youngest guest to sit on so that she may reach the table. I will serve. Lalique can carry the soup bowls to each guest.”
The men looked doubtful but the precocious girl beamed. She was in her natural element. She adored being the centre of attention and had been starved of an audience her entire life. Never again would the little coquette be confined to a luxurious prison. The world was her stage and she meant to play the star. She transported the soup bowls without spilling a drop and sipped her soup daintily. The men didn’t quite know how to respond and wavered between treating the girl like a playful new puppy and the exotic princess of some far-off kingdom. The Countess, too, had very little experience with children, having none of her own, and rarely meeting any except for brief formal family occasions - the offspring of her acquaintances being raised by nannies and governesses. The girl however had spent her life with adults and felt quite comfortable. She had never had playmates her own age and would have found young friends profoundly odd.
The girl proved to be quite a chatterbox and was happy to reveal her various hiding places and how much fun she had had playing hide and seek. The men were speechless. She asked each man if he knew where her maman was. An answer in the negative did not dent her sanguine nature. Part way through the meal the men discovered the girl had expected to meet them. Her maman had told her she would be returning to Chanteloup with four friends before the month was out. If they had any doubts that the fire at the Hotel Louve had been deliberately lit, that doubt was instantly dispelled. The Singing Wolf had planned for the four men to meet Lalique. But why?
Slowly, over the space of lunch, the answer became obvious. One of the men was the girl’s father. When the Countess passed around the baby photo with the four names on the back, followed by four question marks, the matter was more or less confirmed. It appeared that the Singing Wolf did not know who had fathered her child and had been hoping to settle the matter of paternity once the four men came together.
Inez and Desi came to clear the table and serve coffee. They were shocked to see a little girl seated at the table and the sight immediately took their minds off the death of Milo. They hurried back to the kitchen to inform the old couple. A few moments later, fearing the worst, Almaric and Hortense appeared in the great hall.
“You need have no fear,” said Lalique, addressing the old servants and sounding quite grown up. “Maman’s friends are very jolly and I have been minding my manners. I will not be sleeping in the stable any more. From now on I will be sleeping in the big bed.”<
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Almaric, wringing his hands and biting his lip, looked beseechingly to the Countess for a response.
“We understand what has been happening with Lalique,” she said. “Your desire to protect her is commendable. We will take care of her for the time being. She is quite safe with us. If you know what has happened to her maman now would be a good time to tell us.”
“We have no idea where she is or what has happened,” croaked the old man earnestly. “She was looking forward to introducing the child to her friends. Preparations were made. She was looking forward to the event eagerly, as was the child. After her disappearance everything was thrown into confusion. My wife and I have been beset with worry ever since. If you can shed any light on what has happened we would be eternally grateful. And since the death of the boy this morning -”
“Yes, yes,” cut off Reichenbach, thinking of the girl. “This is not the time for such discussion. You may return to the kitchen. If anything comes to light we will inform you.”
After lunch, Lalique sang a French song and performed a dance that she had been diligently rehearsing. The men were impressed and the applause was genuine. It was clear the girl would one day be on the stage, perhaps she would even be as talented as the Singing Wolf. Shortly afterwards, Xenia came to collect the girl for her afternoon nap and though the little demoiselle stamped her foot and resisted, a promise was made whereby she would be allowed to join the adults for dinner if she had a short sleep now. Her departure opened up frank discussion.
“Well, it’s not me!” declared von Gunn.
“Nor me!” voiced the Irishman firmly.
“You can count me out!” vowed Reichenbach.
“Don’t look at me!” snapped the Prince. “Though I concede she is blonde.”
“She’s a pretty little thing too,” agreed the Prussian, softening momentarily.
“Quite,” said the German, tenderly, “but she does not have Aryan features.”
“If by that you mean she doesn’t look like a Valkyrie,” challenged Moriarty acrimoniously, still nursing grievances from the earlier attack, “you are right, but there is no denying she has your blue eyes.”
“And yours, Irishman!”
“We all have blue eyes,” reminded the Prussian, “though mine are the bluest.”
“What does that mean?” quizzed the Prince. “Blue is blue!”
“Mine are Prussian blue.”
“Prussian blue, sky blue, ice blue – you are measuring difference by degrees!”
“So I am! The same with hair! The girl’s hair was yellow blonde. Mine is white blond. It is referred to as platinum blond. Quite different!”
“Cow shit!” Moriarty’s expletive was fierce. “I have seen girls from the same family all sporting different shades of blondeness from white to yellow to gold to reddish blonde.”
Reichenbach flared. “The same goes for you then. Just because you’re bald on top does not mean you can disguise your blondness. I’ve seen your hairy legs!”
“We’re missing the point,” barked von Gunn. “The Singing Wolf selected the four of us because we all have blond hair and blue eyes but don’t you see – the child could not possibly be hers! She was dark and swarthy! Catalan, Moroccan, Corsican, Syrian, Persian, whatever she was, she was not, repeat not, Viking or Saxon or Celt!”
“I beg to differ,” said the Countess.
The men had forgotten she was still in the great hall.
While she attempted to lecture them in the plainest of voices on the theory of heredity they lit up cigars and helped themselves to some cognac. It provided a breather and helped to calm them down.
“You may be familiar with the work of the Augustinian friar, Gregor Mendel, if not I will enlighten you. His work on pea plants, published in 1866, was notable for its application to the theory of heredity. He followed in the footsteps of the early hybridizers such as Linnaeus, Kolreuter, von Gartner, Naudin and Sagaret.”
“I’m familiar with Linnaeus,” said the Baron.
“Shut up,” snapped Moriarty, “and we might all learn something new.”
The Countess continued. “Notably, it was Sagaret who first established the theory of dominant and recessive inheritance, noting that an ancestral characteristic found in neither parent can be found in an offspring. Mendel expanded on the theme and went on to show that inherited traits obey scientific rules.”
“Yes, but we are not interested in pea plants,” pointed out von Gunn. “We are dealing with human traits.”
“I’m getting to that. Scientific evidence has progressed to include human traits. It is scientifically impossible for two blue-eyed parents to have a brown-eyed child. Blue eyes are recessive. Brown eyes are dominant. However, a brown-eyed parent may have a blue-eyed child because the blue-eyed trait may have been carried by the ancestor which did not appear in, but still existed in, the brown-eyed parent, and so was passed to the offspring. In other words, you, gentlemen, are blue-eyed but the Singing Wolf was brown-eyed - if she had blue eyes in her ancestry and was carrying that trait, though she did not show it, it is possible for her to have a blue-eyed child.”
Prince Orczy was the first to catch on. “I see it in terms of gambling. Brown is dominant, brown wins; blue is recessive, blue loses; for blue to win there must be two blues together, even if the blue is cheating, meaning it is hiding behind a brown.”
“Exactly,” smiled the Countess, “and it is the same with hair colour. Brown is dominant. Blond is recessive. Two blond parents cannot produce and brown haired child. They have only their blondness to pass on. But two brown haired parents can produce a blond child if they had blondeness in their ancestral chain, though it did not show up in either parent. The blondeness can hide behind the brown. You, gentlemen, are blond, the Singing Wolf was dark haired. If she was carrying a blond trait from an ancestor, though it did not show up in her, she could have produced a blonde haired child.”
The men did not speak. They were absorbing the scientific information and the near-certain probability that one of them had fathered Lalique.
“Having said all that,” continued the Countess. “I think it is obvious that the Singing Wolf selected the four of you not for the colour of your hair and eyes, but because approximately six and a half years ago she was sleeping with you at the time. I think that would be the first prerequisite, gentlemen.”
“Not me!” denied the Prussian.
“Cow shit!” It was Moriarty again. “I know for a fact you were her lover at the time because she was open and honest about that sort of thing and she told me to my face one night as she was leaving my bed that she was going to yours!”
Prince Orczy laughed throatily. “And I know for a fact that six and half years ago she was visiting my bed too!”
“And mine!” admitted the German reluctantly.
“All right! All right!” conceded the Prussian. “I was her lover about six and a half years ago as well.”
“That settles it, gentlemen,” Moriarty stated unequivocally. “One of us fathered that girl.”
The Countess sighed. “But which one?”
“My head is about to explode,” said von Gunn, patting his throbbing egg. “I’m going for a walk on the ramparts.”
“I’ll join you,” said the Prince, grabbing another cigar from the humidor.
“I’ll bring in the horses and donkeys,” volunteered the Baron. “Do you want to come?” he directed at the Irishman.
Moriarty shook his head. “Not right now.” He waited until the others had disappeared and he was alone with the Countess. “That was a very impressive lecture. I haven’t heard anything like that since my brother tried to explain his treatise on binomial theorem to a roomful of starry-eyed boffins. One word of advice, you’ll never snag a husband if you go about lecturing men. Men don’t like to feel stupid.”
“Tant pis! A husband is the last thing I want to snag. Besides, if a man cannot keep up with my brain he is never going to satisfy my body. Excuse me, s’il
vous plait, I’m going to check on Dr Watson.”
She got as far as the tapestry before he snagged her arm, pushed her roughly up against the wall and delivered a stunning kiss.
“What were you trying to prove with that?” she said icily when he allowed her to come up for air.
“Nothing, I just felt like doing it.”
“And this is something I just feel like doing.”
The slap to his face left him stinging.
Dr Watson was sitting up in bed. A healthier hue had replaced the green-grey gills and his eyes were no longer bloodshot. It was time to apprise him of the latest development called Lalique.
“Brace yourself,” she warned after enquiring how he was feeling then cutting him off halfway through his response, not because she didn’t care, but because she was angry with the Irishman and it was affecting her empathy.
“Not another murder?” he said tensely.
“No, no, thank goodness, I think we are done with death.”
“Have you solved the disappearance of our hostess?” he said hopefully, praying it was the work of Moriarty and that’s why she was pacing the hearth like a caged tigress, unhappy to admit her lover was a ruthless criminal.
“No, unfortunately I am no closer to solving that mystery. It is something that may never be solved, well, not in our lifetime anyway. I have come to inform you that the elusive phantom does actually exist. I found her this morning hiding in a secret compartment behind the mirror in the bathroom in the south tower. She is five years old and goes by the name Lalique.”
“I’d laugh but you sound serious.”
“Quite. The girl is sleeping in my room as we speak, having an afternoon nap. I didn’t want you to arrive in the great hall and think you were seeing visions.”
“Have the others seen her?”
“Yes, the girl joined us for lunch.”